


Thunder

by Fantasyenabler



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:49:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasyenabler/pseuds/Fantasyenabler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy asks Steve to watch out for Clint while Clint goes to Rolling Thunder.  Given the amount of death they both had to deal with, what happens is sort of inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this happens. This was supposed to be a fluffy holiday piece, inspired by events of the past weekend. And yet, it's not.

The whole thing starts sometime in late April, when Darcy stops Steve in the SHIELD cafeteria and asks if either Fury or the DOD have "voluntold" him that he has to do any big appearances on Memorial Day. 

"Voluntold?" he asks, blushing because he can feel his forehead furrowing into what Tony has taken to calling his "Captain Confused" expression.

"You know," she says, poking at some ominously wriggling jell-o. "When someone like Fury tells someone else like the president you'll be happy to do something. And then comes and tells you what they've just volunteered you to do." She drops her plastic spoon and pushes the evil dessert product away. "Viola-- you've been voluntold."

 _Viola_? Steve thinks, just before shaking his head and the mental question away. He gets sick of hearing himself ask them sometimes; he can only imagine how the people answering him all the time feel.

So he says instead, "No, Fury hasn't told me I have to be somewhere." He grins a little as he recalls one of their more recent conversations. "I think he might have decided it was a bad idea after I asked him why the holiday was no longer called Decoration Day."

Darcy smirks at him in a way that practically screams, Yeah, that would do it, before saying, "That's awesome. Because I've got a plan I could definitely use your help with." She claps her hands excitedly for a moment, then pauses and begins eying him in a way that seems one part Tony, one part Clint, and somehow all Darcy. "That is, if you don't mind wearing something a little special for this...something a little special and oh-so-important...."

"How important?" he asks, feeling a small bubble of concern starting to form in the pit of his stomach. Darcy has always been nice to him, but he's noticed that even nice people in this century can have what seems to him like a very strange sense of humor.

"This important," she says as she pulls something out of the unzipped duffle bag sitting on the seat next to her. "This," she says, "is going to be key to you helping me. Because it’s going to be bad enough worrying about Clint driving himself off the side of a highway during the holiday weekend." She places it on the table in front of him. "I really don't want to be wondering if Captain America is going to end up spilling his brains across some good, old American asphalt as well."

She pulls her hands away and Steve can immediately feel his forehead furrowing again. "But, Darcy," he says, "that's a motorcycle helmet."

"Yes," she says, the expression in her eyes growing fierce. "And you are going to wear it and love it. Because I have much bigger things to deal with than whether or not I'm offending your old school sensibilities."

He frowns, and feels himself half a second away from telling her that he doesn't understand why the modern world thinks so many things are now necessary. 

Then he takes another look at her expression, and asks instead, "Darcy, why don't you tell me what's really going on here?"

She stares at him for a heartbeat or two, her large eyes suddenly so wet, he’s afraid of what’s she’s about to unleash on him. 

Right up until the moment she takes a quick breath, centers herself, and begins.

 

A few weeks later, on a swelteringly hot Sunday morning, one day before Memorial Day itself, Steve is standing in a Pentagon parking lot, staring at what has to be the largest collection of motorcycles, and motorcycle riders, he has ever seen. The vast majority are some type of Harley Davidson cruiser, like his own bike, the motorcycle he bought shortly after SHIELD got him a legal license again. But some of the bikes are Triumphs and Indians, and others are models Steve's never seen before.

"Don't stare too hard at the riceburners," Clint says, pulling his sweat soaked “ARMY” tee shirt away from his chest. "Half of them act like they think they shouldn’t be here as it is.” He snorts. “Like they're going to get their asses kicked just because they’re riding a Honda. Give me a break."

Actually, Steve can’t blame any of the riders for being nervous. When he and Clint first rode into DC on Friday, he himself felt a little concerned that the nation’s capital was being invaded by a large group of very hostile forces. The bikers that parked their motorcycles on the National Mall, in the city’s parks, and along the city’s roadways looked intimidating with their leather vests, various patches, and often rowdy demeanors.

But then Clint started pointing out various patches to him. (“Follow me,” he said. “I speak Redneck.”) While there were “Outlaws” among the crowd, there were also many clubs made up of cops and veterans, clubs that often raised money for veterans’ and children’s charities with their rides, he said. The “Blue Knights.” The “Iron Pigs.” The “Nam Knights.” The “Desert Knights.” And Clint’s favorites, the “Boozefighters.”

“They’re a ‘drinking club with a motorcycle problem,’” he said, grinning hugely. “But I guess you can’t expect anything else from a club founded by a group of World War Two vets.” He punched Steve in the shoulder. “Everyone knows you’re all a bunch of party animals.” 

After that, Clint had just pulled Steve through the crowd and let him make his own observations. The young men in full dress uniform sweating in the heat. The young women in sundresses and formal hairdos who had round “IRQ, I served” bumper stickers stuck to the back of their dresses like bows. The bikers flying Canadian and Australian flags whom Steve later saw lining up at the Pentagon, taking their places for the ride up Constitution Avenue.

The old men in electric wheelchairs and disability scooters, waving their artificial limbs, wearing their unit caps, and beeping their scooter horns at every biker that went by. 

They were on the other side of Constitution from Steve, too far for him to read their caps, and he thought about tapping Clint on the shoulder and asking him to read them for him.

Thought about it, but ultimately decided not to. It really didn’t matter what war they were from. It only mattered that they were there.

So now Steve stands with his Harley parked in line, waiting for another hour to pass, so they can be a part of “The First Amendment Demonstration Run,” the POW/MIA awareness ride up Constitution Avenue and back out Independence Avenue that everyone says gives “Rolling Thunder” its name. Given the thousands of bikes that seem to be lined up, Steve can believe it. Revved up all together, they should make one heck of a noise.

As Steve stands and waits, he sees a middle-aged gentleman in a “Blue Knights” vest tap Clint on the shoulder, gesture to Clint's bike, and say solemnly, “That’s one beautiful ride you’ve got there.”

Clint glances down at the custom cruiser, with its elongated body and its gas tank painted “desert camo” colors. The red and black shoulder sleeve insignia of the 75th Ranger Regiment is centered on each side of the gas tank, with the unit insignia painted on the hard saddlebags riding below and behind the seat. At the rear of the bike, there are two little flag poles mounted on the Massachusetts license plate, one the Stars and Stripes, the other the U.S. Army star enclosed in a square.

Clint stares at it all like he’s seeing it for the first time. Then he turns to the man and says, “Thanks, but it’s not mine. It belongs to the brother of a friend of mine. My friend promised his brother that he’d ride it today, but it turns out he couldn’t keep that promise.” He pulls at his shirt, the ARMY letters sticky with sweat. “I never joined the Rangers like the two of them did. But I thought they wouldn’t mind if I showed up for them today.”

The man nods as Clint speaks, and when he talks again, he's even more solemn than before. "I imagine they wouldn't, son," he says, turning to walk away and patting Clint on the shoulder as he does. "I imagine they wouldn't mind at all."

"Yeah," Clint says, waving to the man before turning back towards the bike, once again looking like he's never seen it before. Like he hasn't been riding it the last few days. Like he didn't ride it down from Massachusetts where Coulson's sister-in-law was keeping it in her garage.

Like he's just now realizing why he's here.

"Clint..." Steve starts, not sure what he's going to say, only knowing that he has to say something.

“Cap,” Clint says, waving him off as he does. “Don’t, just don’t, okay? I know that Darcy asked you to keep an eye on me, but I also know that she didn’t expect you to let me cry on your shoulder or anything.” He smirks as he pulls out his Starkphone. “Trust me. She and Natasha stole my phone and made sure I had them down as my primary contacts for that.”

“Still…I still want..." He stares at Clint's face, hoping that some small quirk or facial tic will tell Steve what he needs to say. 

Instead, he sees the same look he's been seeing for weeks now. The "Gee, Cap, you're a swell guy, but you're just too old-fashioned to get it" expression that all of the Avengers seem to wear.

That everyone he's met in this century seems to wear.

And in that moment, he decides he's sick of it. Sick of them treating him like he's the outdated antique they expect him to be. Of them thinking that they know him just because he's in the history books or on some trading cards. 

Sick of them thinking he's some image or idea that was just created for people to claim a piece of. Sick that they think he's not a person with thoughts and fears and dreams that no monument in Arlington could ever do justice to.

Sick, when he realizes that they all were. 

Every last one of them. They all were.

He looks back in Arlington's direction, imagining he can see the cemetary that lies just beyond the Pentagon's great bulk. Or the 9/11 Pentagon memorial just around the corner of the parking lot. Or the private burials performed in the various states. Or the battlefield graves left behind all over Europe, Asia, and assorted other places. 

They all were, he thinks, and it doesn't matter where or when they fought and died. All that matters is that they managed to hold on to some decent notion, that they held on to something worth believing in.

And they all did, he has to think, looking at the motorcycle Coulson's brother so carefully put together. He has to think that they all did, or it just isn't worth thinking about at all.

And that's not acceptable. Not for any of them from any time.

"Clint," he asks, "can you tell me what the history books say about one of the Howling Commandos, a guy by the name of Bucky Barnes?"

Clint blinks at him, obviously a bit thrown by the sudden change in subject. "Um," he says, "that he was your closest friend. That he died shortly before you took the Red Skull's plane and flew it into the sea."

"Yeah, that's what I've read too." And that had been both harder and easier than Steve had expected it to be. "Would you like to hear what they don't say?"

Clint squints at him like he isn't sure, but ends up nodding his head anyway. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'd like to know."

He stares at Steve expectantly, and for a long moment, Steve can't say anything. He just stares back as parts of him start to realize that this will mean an end to those images, to those false ideas history has planted in everyone's heads.

But that could only be a good thing, right? Especially now, when he was the only one left that could be hurt by the truth?

The only one left...

"I loved him," he says. "Not like a soldier loves a friend or a comrade or another member of your platoon." He stumbles over the last few words, then forces down a breath so he can carry on. "I loved him in the way that everyone expected me to love Peggy, in a way that could have gotten us both arrested back then." 

He pauses as some other bikers walk by, waits for them to pass before he continues. "I loved him the same way you loved Coulson. But we never had the time to really be together. The war...it was more important..."

He's surprised by the hand that suddenly appears on his arm. Somehow he'd stopped paying attention to anything other than his words.

He can't help but pay attention to the look in Clint's eyes though, the tightness around his mouth. "There's always something more important," he says. "Always."

And Steve can see him counting the missed days, the missed nights, the opportunities none of them will ever have again. "Maybe," he says, "maybe next time..." And he has to stop. Because it still breaks his heart that there has to be a "next time."

Clint seems to get his meaning though. "Maybe," he says. "We'll just have to see."

They stand there, both of them staring without seeing, hearing without listening.

Until something they can't ignore breaks into their moment, this small piece of silence they've created outside of time.

It's a sound.

The sound of thunder.

Steve blinks as he realizes that the bikes at the front of the massive lines are starting to move. "Still want to do this?" he asks.

Clint drops his hand and smiles, a small smile that Steve doesn't think he's ever seen from Clint before. "Oh, yeah," he says. "Now more than ever." He jumps on his bike and starts it. "If memories are all I'm going to have left of Phil..." He looks down before taking a deep breath and revving the bike's engine. "Well, making sure people remember is what this weekend is supposed to be all about, right?"

Steve smiles and gets on his own bike. "Yeah, I think maybe it is." He starts it and then reminds himself to grab his helmet. "Do you think anyone would notice if I didn't wear this? There are going to be a lot of bikers on this ride."

"I'd notice," Clint says, slipping on his own headgear. "And I'd totally rat you out to Darcy if you don't wear it."

Steve sighs and puts it on. "I just don't see the point of it. We're Avengers. It's not like a slow motorcycle ride is going to kill us."

"It might," Clint says, watching the group of bikes two lines ahead start to move. "And I don't know about you, but the next time I see Phil, I don't want to have to explain that I died for anything less than what we lived for together." He squints at Steve as he raises his kickstand and braces himself. "Do you?"

And with that he's off and running, leaving Steve to play catch up from behind.

Steve raises his kickstand and braces. Then guns the gas and shifts the clutch until he and Clint are riding side by side.

Clint laughs when he sees him. "Yeah, I didn't think so," he says, as he shifts into a higher gear. "Let's ride."

Later that afternoon, they'll meet Natasha and Darcy at a bar on Pennsylvania Avenue. Darcy will show them the pictures she took with her phone, and after several rounds of drinks that take their toll on her more than anybody, she'll ask if Clint wants the pictures, or if he wants her to email them to Coulson's sister-in-law.

Steve's not surprised to hear Clint say he'll do it. Or when he and Natasha start taking turns telling their favorite Coulson stories.

He is suprised when Clint asks if he has any stories he'd like to share, about the group of men he made his ride for today.

For a brief moment, Steve considers letting the past be the past.

Then he remembers the purpose of the ride that day.

And finally, he starts talking.


End file.
